


Yin & Yang

by iceprinceofbelair



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Anxiety, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Child Abuse, Depression, Gay, Gen, M/M, Polyamorous relationship, Prickly Yuuri, REALLY FUCKING GAY, Sickly Victor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-06 01:03:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10321994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iceprinceofbelair/pseuds/iceprinceofbelair
Summary: Yuuri and Viktor couldn't be more different. City boy Yuuri is prickly and sad, frightened to get close to anyone. Rich country boy Viktor is lonely and desperate for a friend. They're drawn together when war breaks out across the world.





	1. Chapter 1

**London, 1940**

School is dull - unbelievably dull - but Yuuri gets through it by pinging homemade paper pellets at Annie Cooper with his ruler. She finally grasses him up just after lunch and Yuuri spits at her as he passes on his way to the front to receive six raps on each hand with a swagger in his step. He barely even flinches. It’s not that he’s used to the pain, though he’s had more than his fair share, but rather that he has a reputation to uphold. That reputation is all that brings his father’s attention and perhaps it’s negative attention but it’s something. It’s enough. Anything is better than the silent hating eyes staring at him from over the top of yesterday’s newspaper.

He makes the long trudge home with his hands still stinging, tucked into his armpits in the hopes of calming the throbbing for just long enough to pretend that the way his father grabs them doesn’t make the tears threaten to build up behind his eyes. He does just that the second he walks in the door, turns them over in his hands and slaps Yuuri so hard on the back of the head that he stumbles forwards.

“You useless boy,” his father roars, towering over Yuuri, seeming to fill the whole space before him as he grows with his rage. “Can’t you go one day without doing something stupid?”

Yuuri stands his ground as always and retorts calmly, “I can’t help what’s genetic.”

And he knows he’s really for it then because his father’s scarlet face begins to turn purple and he grasps Yuuri’s shoulders and shakes him, yelling about respect and teaching him a lesson. That’s how Yuuri ends up in the cupboard under the stairs for the rest of the day, sulking amid the brooms and brushes. His family aren’t exactly abusive. His father only reacts that way when he does something awful - which, admittedly, is often - and opts to ignore him for the rest of the time they spend in each other’s company. Yuuri learned at an early age that his father simply could not stand the sight nor sound of his own son and it never really occurred to him that there was anything wrong with that until he saw the way his friends’ parents treated them. When he saw the hugs and affection other boys got from their fathers and mothers alike, Yuuri began to wonder if his mother’s occasional attempts to connect with him were really enough.

He knows his mother loves him. She used to, at any rate. She tucked him into bed and read him stories like any mother would. Until his father caught wind of it and put a stop to such childish novelties by the time Yuuri was seven.

(“He should be able to read by himself by now. Treat the boy like a fool and he will grow up to be one. The damage has probably already been done.”)

Yuuri’s mother slips him some food from her plate later on that night when his father lets him out well past tea time. Again, it’s not really abuse. He’s fed and watered as much as he can be with their income and his father’s refusal to cut down on his own food for the sake of his son. He often says Yuuri needs “toughening up” but then yells and rants and rages when Yuuri tries to prove how tough he really is by taking the belt without blinking. Honestly, Yuuri doesn’t know what to do to please him. But he decided a long time ago that even negative attention was better than no attention and even whippings were better than silence.

Later that night, there’s a little boy crying in the corner and Yuuri rolls his eyes, looking round at all of the families in their street who have all huddled into one air raid shelter while the bombs explode all around them. Another bomb goes off and more children start screaming, their mother’s desperately trying to hush them to prevent scowls from others who only want to sleep. It’s six in the morning; the raid started at ten. Yuuri hasn’t slept and neither, by the looks of it, has anyone else.

Emergency supplies are kept in the concrete structure - food, blankets, prized possessions and memorable objects of sentimental value. Yuuri’s family have a corner to themselves but he does not join them, preferring his own company. There are no boys his age in this street nor the next street over. And he’s stuck in here until the bloody Germans run out of ammunition.

Right now, Yuuri isn’t scared. Yuuri isn’t scared because he’s safe in a shelter with too many other people and it’s cramped and it smells of sweat. The air is warm and tastes stale in his mouth but he has to keep breathing because there’s no other choice. Well, there is, but Yuuri tries not to think about it too much. In here, Yuuri still can’t let his guard down. He has a backlash of witty, cheeky comebacks on the tip of his tongue for anybody who tries to challenge his sitting so close to the door, ready to make a quick escape as soon as the all clear sounds. Sometimes he heads indoors earlier because he’s past the point of caring. He just wants to sleep and there’s no way Hitler’s lot are interfering with his life any more than he will allow.

Yuuri’s stomach rumbles but he ignores it. He’s hoping the raid will be over soon and he’ll perhaps be able to sprint to the house, which will be unlocked, and grab something from the kitchen cupboards before his father arrives to stop him.

His hands are still sore too.

The swelling has gone down some but they still remain as a symbol of shame where his father is concerned and a sign that you don’t mess with Yuuri Katsuki, no matter what. And it must work because nobody ever does. Not anymore.

Air raids were scary at first, when Yuuri actually cared if he lived or not. Now, he’s as passive as they come. He wouldn’t even move to the shelter is it weren’t for his mother’s pleading eyes telling him she loves him regardless of what choices he makes. He loves her, he really does. He loves his father too, adores him despite his every attempt to despise the man as much as he is despised in return. But he can’t because that man is his father and the inherent need for his approval is too strong to overcome.

The all clear finally sounds at seven thirty three and Yuuri is too exhausted to make his speedy getaway. Instead, he almost crawls home and throws on his school clothes. Maybe he can still make today worthwhile if he can slash the tires on old Mr Prescott’s bike to get back at him for the belt yesterday.

~

Yuuri spends the day giving cheek to teachers and getting away with it because they’re all too exhausted after last night’s raid to bother giving him a walloping. Even Mr Jenkins who never passes up the opportunity to see Yuuri in pain lets his blatant cheek slide with a threatening hand gesture with no weight behind it. It’s odd. Yuuri has never seen his school like this. It’s near deserted. And his friends aren’t even here so there’s very little for him to do but kick stones around the playground and sometimes at other people.

He leaves school early with Leo de la Iglesia who says he’s managed to pinch his mother’s cigarettes again without her noticing. Yuuri grins when he finds out he hasn’t been lying as Leo produces the deep blue packet from his pocket with a lighter tucked inside.

“Doesn’t she ever notice?” Yuuri asks without really caring for a response. It doesn’t matter to him whether Leo’s idiot mother gives him an earful for smoking them or not. He’s not even sure if she knows.

Leo shrugs, taking a long drag and tapping the ash gently onto the grass. “She just thinks she’s lost them again. Never suspects a thing.”

Yuuri turns away again, leaning his foot against the wall of the off license when he hears Leo mutter something which sounds like Spanish though he doesn’t comment.

It’s around an hour later when Guang Hong Ji and Michele Crispino turn up with sweat all over their faces and their lungs heaving to give up on them.

“Running marathons again, Mickey?” Yuuri asks slyly, eyeing Michele’s podgy stomach pointedly.

Michele scowls.

“Rather you than me,” Leo quips and Yuuri laughs at the anger in poor Michele’s face. Yuuri can’t for the life of him figure out why he sticks around. All he ever gets is abuse. He sets himself up for it, though, he really does.

It’s Guang Hong who finally puffs out that they’ve managed to steal a bottle of single malt whiskey from a man in a suit who had just bought it from the shop they’re currently hiding behind and Yuuri cackles with laughter when Michele does an impression of what looks like a monkey but must be the man they’re talking about. He loves excitement. Guang Hong produces the bottle from the pocket of his trousers and Yuuri is almost surprised to see he isn’t lying. He doesn’t have much time to study it because a policeman comes pelting round the bend not seconds later and someone yells a warning and they leg it over the high wall with expert precision. Even Andrew has gotten so used to hoisting his weight up over the wall that he manages it without too much of a struggle. Yuuri hides how impressed he is with another laugh while they keep running.

When they feel they’re a safe enough distance away, they collapse in a heap almost simultaneously, panting and trying to catch their breaths which have long since abandoned them. Yuuri is the first to burst into hysterics, still high on the adrenaline. Soon, they’ve all joined in and Yuuri can’t breathe for very different reasons.

“Right, lads,” Michael puffs, holding the bottle aloft like a trophy. “Looks like we’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

~

Yuuri stumbles through the door at midnight and his father descends on him like a ton of bricks. Yuuri knows he’s done for when his father’s face changes at the smell of his breath. Strangely enough, he doesn’t say anything. He only looks at Yuuri with eyes so full of utter disappointment that he might have burst into tears there and then had he not been so devoid of emotion as a general rule.

(Alcohol doesn’t ever change him and that, quite frankly, terrifies him. If even alcohol can’t make him feel less empty then he’s clearly doomed to a life without emotion. And that’s scarier than a war.)

Yuuri’s mother comes out into the hallway in her dressing gown with tired eyes sunken into her face. It’s only now Yuuri can see how fed up she is with running after him all the time, trying to warn him away from his father’s wrath. He wishes briefly he’d listened to her pleas for him to stay safe, stay out of trouble. Perhaps he would have grown up respectable.

Respectable.

Though, nowadays, Yuuri wonders if he was ever meant to be anything more than a hopeless delinquent.

~

**Devonshire, 1940**

Viktor has always preferred to study on the floor despite the desk in the corner of his room. He likes the unlimited space to spread out his books and lie on his stomach with his note paper tucked neatly beneath his chin. Minako usually borrows the pillow from his bed to put under her chest because it’s sore for her otherwise. Viktor doesn’t mind. He’d rather she was comfortable.

It’s History today. Admittedly, they usually study History because it’s Viktor’s favourite subject and he can usually sweet talk Minako into skipping maths yet again to instead teach him about great battles and international relations throughout the years and the formation of the United States of America. Minako is great like that. Some days, Viktor thinks he has her wrapped around his little finger. But then she’ll whip out a maths textbook before he can stop her and he knows he still has quite the distance to go before he can honestly say that he has her sussed.

While they’re discussing the American Civil War, Viktor’s thoughts wander to the war they’re in the middle of right now. He doesn’t mean to tune Minako out. It just happens. He lifts his gaze to the window and stares at the cloudy sky and wonders how far his father is from home.

“Do you think Papa is alright?” He asks suddenly, picking himself up from the ground and ambling over to the window which he promptly opens and allows the cool February breeze to whistle through his hair and down the long sleeves of his pajamas.

Viktor’s family is the only one of its kind he knows of and he considers himself extremely lucky. He has two mamas _and_ a papa. Well, really it feels more like having a big sister than an extra mama. Zhenya treats him like her little brother and, to Viktor, she’s _always_ been Zhenya. Never mama.

(It makes sense. After all, she was Zhenya long before his mama fell in love.)

Minako sighs. “I’m sure he is,” she says but her voice lacks conviction as she comes to stand beside him.

He traces the dips of the hills with his eyes and wonders if his father will come home from the war at all. He knows it’s unlikely but he wants to hope so desperately that the last image in mind of his papa won’t be the last he’ll ever have. While he knows he’s out there fighting for the safety of his family, Viktor can’t quell the selfish wish that it could be their entire family. He just wants his papa home safely - preferably now.

Minako shuts the window again, placing a gentle hand on Viktor’s shoulder.

“It’s cold out,” she remarks, running her eyes over Viktor’s thin pajamas with concern. “We can’t have you coming down with the flu in this weather,”

It’s Viktor’s turn to sigh this time. Minako worries about him, he knows that, but sometimes he wants to be able to make his own decisions. Sometimes he wants to be able to open the window without someone else telling him he needs to look after his health.

“If I leave you to finish your book, will you tell your mama I wanted you to finish reading about the Boston Tea Party?” Minako whispers and Viktor hugs her gratefully before hopping onto his bed and opening up his book where he left off with delight. As much as he adores history, ghosts are far more exciting. Minako offers him a small smile before closing the door halfway and padding downstairs.

Viktor opens the window again.

~

Viktor isn’t really the type to play outside. What with living in the countryside, miles from any other children - his cousin, Yurio, goes to boarding school up North and Viktor never sees him anymore - he doesn’t have anyone to play with. His entire life has been spent in the company of the adults working and living in the house and, while he gets on with everyone, he can’t help but wish that he could have friends his own age. It’s nice when he gets to see Yurio during the summer but, with the best will in the world, he’s too prickly and impatient to be much fun.

So he wishes, silently, for someone his own age to share his time with.

Perhaps that’s selfish. After all, he’s lucky enough to have been born into a well-off family with loving parents who would do anything to make him happy. He can’t wish for more than that yet he seems to manage it with every breath he takes.

Outside seems to be the only place he can go to remind himself of what’s really important. When he’s lying in the dew drenched grass or gazing out over the lake from the back of one of Celestino’s horses, he can let out his breath and let the world wash over him. It makes him remember just how big the world is and how many people would kill to have just a sliver of what he has. It makes him remember how lucky he really is to live here with acres of fields and forests for him to roam around in, free to move and exist without the harsh restrictions faced by poor people or those just born with fewer chances in life.

He thinks about how the lake will freeze over soon and imagines dancing across the ice as flawlessly as his mother can with Zhenya.

Minako is right; he shouldn’t be out here. Winter is still biting at his skin, strangling the trees. He should go inside. But he doesn’t because he’s too busy climbing the bare tree closest to the house, waiting for the sunset which is sure to be especially beautiful tonight with mist creeping over the horizon. It’s due in twenty minutes. He can stay out a little longer.

The sunset has only begun when his mother comes outside, calling for him with a note of desperation in her voice. Viktor sighs. He doesn’t mean to worry her but small tastes of freedom are nice every once in a while. He never ventures far, she knows that, but it doesn’t stop her from worrying. She spots him curled around the uppermost branch which can support his weight and cranes her neck upwards as she moves to stand closer.

“Are you coming inside, Vitenka?” She asks, pulling her thin cardigan across her chest when the breeze brushes against her.

Viktor leans a little closer to the edge and the catch of breath in his mother’s throat carries on the breeze to his ears. “Not yet. It’s only just turned pink,” he nods to the sun which is slowly slipping behind the hills.

Viktor’s mother sighs and Viktor thinks for a moment she might be about to plead with him, in which case he would give in. He can’t stand to hear his mother beg, not after all she’s done for him. All she wants is his happiness and he knows she has nothing but his best interests at heart. It’s just hard to remember that sometimes when her love and attention feels like a rope around his chest, pulling tighter until he can’t even breathe without her being there.

“How long have you been out?” Her words sound innocent but Viktor knows she’s looking for any excuse to order him back inside right now. Viktor returns his eyes to the setting sun, trying to disguise the shivers coursing through him at the touch of frost in the air.

“Not long,” he lies smoothly, letting his head thud back gently onto the trunk. “Five minutes and I’ll come inside.”

Bargaining always works. Sasha is nothing if not fair. She does her best to find the balance between caring and crushing. She doesn’t always manage but Viktor can hardly blame her. She’s cared for him his entire life, always having to be the one to worry about his well-being because his father focused mainly on ensuring he had a childhood. His mother was left to do all the worrying. Now, Viktor is old enough to decide for himself when to come indoors and she knows she can’t restrict him forever.

She tries, though. She tries her best.

“Alright,” she sighs grudgingly, looking down at the grass and Viktor can tell she’s frowning even though he can’t see her face. “Five minutes.”

With no further words, she goes back inside and Viktor returns to his gazing, watching the colours change and darken until the sky is turning a deep blue twilight and his mother calls him in.

“You can watch the rest from inside,” she promises.

He goes without protest and is immediately taken to sit by the fire, wrapped up in a blanket with a cup of hot tea. He doesn’t even particularly like tea but he drinks it for his mother. He does most things for his mother.

(When he wakes up the next morning, it hurts to breathe and he spends the next week inside on his mother’s orders. Still, he thinks it was worth it.)

~

“Bombings in London,” Nikolei Plisetsky, Viktor’s uncle, mutters at breakfast one morning. He’s grouchy, as usual, and the news only ever makes him worse. Viktor doesn’t know why he still bothers with the newspapers since they never seem to yield any good news. Or, if they do, Viktor never hears about it since his uncle is too focused on the tragedies and scandals to pay much attention to children saved from house fires by heroic strangers.

Nikolei has never been one for good news. Viktor’s mother says he’s busy hating the world for the hardships it’s brought upon him to care about the good fortune of anyone else. Viktor thinks that’s a sad life to live.

“Really?” She sounds like she can’t quite believe it, peering over Nikolei’s shoulder to see for herself. He swats her away angrily and she takes up her seat again without so much as a hostile glare back. She’s so passive about Nikolei’s behaviour towards her that Viktor remembers being startled the first time he heard her and his father scolding him for being cruel to Zhenya. Viktor is grateful they’ve always taught him to treat everyone with respect so he’s rarely ever gotten on their bad side. He hates when his parents are angry with him.

Nikolei lets out a grunt and turns the page of his broadsheet. “Hundreds killed, they’re saying. Families.”

Sasha gasps. Viktor feels his mother’s hand find his own under the table, squeezing it tightly as though to make sure he’s still there. He squeezes back to reassure her that he is.

“Oh, stop it,” she pouts, shaking her head viciously. “I don’t want to hear another word,”

Viktor stops listening. Bombings in London. That’s awfully close to home.

He thinks meekly of the millions of people who live there, the people who have lost their mothers and fathers, their children, their brothers and sisters. How awful it must be for them. He feels a horrible tightening in his stomach at the thought of losing his own parents, of perhaps losing Zhenya or Minako or Phichit or Christophe. He feels sick.

Viktor pays attention for just long enough to hear Nikolei mutter something about the “ruddy Germans,” before slipping back into his thoughts.

Everyone has finished eating by the time Viktor is ready to leave the table too. He heads back up to his bedroom and finds Zhenya folding his freshly washed clothes neatly into his drawers. Viktor picks up a stack and gives her a hand.

“How are you, Zhenya?” He asks, having not spoken to her at all yet today. She smiles and tells him she’s quite well and, when asked in return, he repeats her words.

Zhenya worries about him too; he can see a fleeting concerned look flit through her eyes when he clears his throat or gets some dust up his nose and sneezes. She never asks him about it, though, because she understands how he hates to be smothered. But Viktor can tell she worries.

Often, he wishes to be better simply so he won’t worry anybody ever again.

“How was the sunset?” Zhenya asks wistfully. She loves to watch it with him when she gets the chance but she’s often busy helping Phichit in the kitchen at this time of the year when the days are shorter and night falls at five in the afternoon.

“Beautiful,” Viktor sighs dreamily, thinking back to when the sky looked almost lilac before fading to a deep, rich blue. “You’ll watch it with me tomorrow, won’t you?”

Zhenya smiles. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.”

Viktor smiles back and they go back to folding clothes in silence. After a while, Viktor asks if Zhenya knows anything more about the bombings in London. He can’t get the images out of his head of people running for their lives from an unknown enemy, scooping their children up in their arms and throwing themselves into basements or just under tables - anywhere they might be safe. He sees a mother enveloping her child, pinning them to the floor with the mass of her body, shielding them. He shudders.

“Your uncle said the bombs fell from the skies. German planes, he said,” Zhenya whispers and Viktor knows that this thrills her in a sadistic way just as it does him. He doesn’t enjoy thinking about all those people dying but something about it enthralls him. Perhaps ‘thrilling’ is the wrong word but it sends shivers down his spine and puts a lump in his throat just thinking about the lives of those poor people having been completely shaken up. He thinks about fathers on night shift, arriving home to find their houses in tatters, their families buried beneath the rubble. It’s like a stab in the heart.

Viktor swallows. “What do you think they’ll do? The government, I mean?”

“There’s not much they can do,” Zhenya tells him sadly, finishing up the last pile of clothes and shutting his drawers over neatly. She continues speaking as she heads for the door. “How can they protect people from something falling from the sky?”

Viktor doesn’t say anything and Zhenya leaves to get on with her work. She poses an interesting question, Viktor thinks; one he doesn’t know how to answer. How does one defend himself from a crumbling sky?

~

**London, 1940**

When Yuuri turns up to find this police at his door, his chest tightens.

They know.

(Which means his family know and, more importantly, his father knows. He can’t go back.)

So, he turns on his heel and runs, the epitome of guilt but even that doesn’t stop him. He can’t face his father. Not now.

For everything he’s done, Yuuri isn’t a bad person. He’d never hurt anyone on purpose. They were only trying to smash a window. He didn’t know anybody would be on the other side. The lights were off - the others said they were out. He only wanted the adrenaline he only gets from fleeing the scene. When his feet pelt against the concrete and the wind rushes past his ears and his stomach jumps and jolts from his toes to his throat, he’s reminded that he’s alive. He’s a human with a life and he is very much alive.

He feels his heartbeat hammer in his chest in time with his feet slapping against the road.

(Alive. Alive. Alive.)

It’s stupid but it’s one of the very few things he feels and he point blank refuses to miss an opportunity to feel something aside from emptiness. He wants to feel alive. He wants to feel _something._

This running doesn’t give him the right buzz. This running is fuelled by sheer terror, the fear that being caught will mean life imprisonment for GBH. He’ll spend the better part of his life in a cell. Perhaps he’ll even be hanged. Do they still hang people? Yuuri isn’t even sure but they might make a special exception just for him. After all, he’s the runt of the litter, the delinquent getting under everybody’s feet. They know he’s just riding out his legal obligation to attend school until he can set himself free and probably live on the streets because he’ll have not a penny nor a qualification to his name.

Not that he cares. It takes a lot for Yuuri to care about anything.

Right now, he cares about getting caught. He can’t go back. Which is why he runs to Michele’s house and batters on the door. His mother opens it warily, half expecting to find some burly youth ready to barge in and steal things but she likes Yuuri for some undiscernable reason. He has what she refers to as a "raffish charm" about him.

She hurries him inside and sits him down on the couch and he makes up some lie about his father being drunk and demanding revenge for something he’s sure Yuuri has done. He can’t tell her the truth. She’s about the only adult who treats him like a person. He can’t lose that. Michele's mother is the exception. He holds his tongue a little more tightly for her but, even then, it's only because he doesn't see her as a grown up. It never seems to put her off - she calls him a cheeky scoundrel and he flashes her a dimpled smile. Losing that might kill him.

But he loses it nonetheless because nothing in Yuuri’s life ever works out in his favour. Of course they find him. Of course the police come knocking and, being the law abiding citizen she is, she hands Yuuri over, believing honestly in her heart that they’re here to protect him from his “brute of a father” as she has become accustomed to calling him.

When he’s led away in handcuffs, he looks back to see the utter betrayal written all over her face and he has to bite the inside of his lip to keep himself from crying.

Yuuri Katsuki doesn't cry.

~

His father’s face is purple with rage when he arrives home at long last, escorted by the officer who arrested him. The PC grabs his upper arm too firmly and manhandles him right up to his front door despite his struggling. God, he’s really in a mess now. He doesn’t know how he’s going to get out of this one. And then the yelling starts and it takes everything Yuuri has not to flinch in fear. He hates the sound of it yet he craves it and that’s not healthy; it can’t possibly be healthy.

“You can wipe that smug grin off your face this instant,” his father roars, tucking his hands behind his back. Yuuri can see his arms shaking and realises it’s taking every ounce of self control the man has not to lunge at him and knock some sense into him. Still, he doesn’t stop smirking. “Do you have any idea what you’ve put your mother and I through tonight? The police turned up at our door, demanding to see our son loud enough for the whole street to come sticking their noses in. You’ve disgraced our good name, our reputation,”

Yuuri says nothing and this seems only to infuriate his father.

He goes on, “You could have killed that poor woman. What would you have done if there had been a baby under that window?”

Yuuri shrugs, moulding his features into a bored expression to mask the internal quivering.

(He hadn’t thought of that. What would he have done? If the baby had died, would he have been a murderer? He only wanted to feel something. Surely that’s not a crime. Surely.)

“Don’t you shrug your shoulders at me!”

Yuuri swallows, disguising it with a tilt of his chin in apparent defiance. His father sucks the air in through his teeth and Yuuri eyes the way his fists clench by his sides warily. One wrong move and he’s going to be black and blue. Rightly so, perhaps, but he’d still rather avoid it.

(Maybe that’s true cowardice. He can’t face the consequences of his actions, can’t take the punishment which comes with the crime. There’s nobody to blame that on but himself.)

In the moment, Yuuri misses childhood. He misses when his mother used to read to him and tuck him into bed with a kiss. He misses when he used to feel even half full after eating, when they used to have just enough for everybody. He misses the way they were together before they turned into thugs. He misses childhood. So, maybe his father still hated him but he showed it less often because Yuuri refused to provoke him. Younger Yuuri was wise beyond his years. Not now. It seems he’s only grown in blatant stupidity as he’s grown older. Perhaps it will only get worse.

“I’ve had enough of you,” Yuuri’s father’s voice is dangerously quiet when he speaks now and Yuuri can’t deny it sends shivers coursing through his veins. “You’d better pack a bag because I’m shipping you off to boarding school in Timbuktu in the morning,”

Yuuri’s mother steps in then, placing a hand on her husband’s arm which is quickly cast aside with more force than is perhaps necessary. It doesn’t faze her. It fazes Yuuri though, when instead of defending him, she says, “We don’t have the money to do that. It would cost hundreds of-”

She is silenced with just a hand gesture and his father takes a step towards him. Another and another until his face is close enough to smell his foul breath.

“You are no son of mine,” he spits, fists clenched mercilessly by his thighs. Yuuri holds his gaze. He doesn’t blink. “I’ll get rid of you someday, boy. You can bet your life on that.”

With nothing else, he grabs his coat from the doorway and storms out. Yuuri glances back to his mother but she only shakes her head and mutters, “You’ve really done it this time, Yuuri.”

And maybe he really has.

~

Yuuri knows something is off the instant his father strolls through the door just after eight. For one thing, he’s humming. Yuuri has never heard his father hum in his whole life. He’s also trying to suppress a smile which, by the looks of it, is probably going to become a cheesy grin if he ever lets it loose. Yuuri isn’t sure if he’s hoping for it or dreading it because he has a sneaking suspicion this isn’t going to end well for him. His father is never happy and, after the day he’s had dealing with his trouble-maker son, now doesn’t seem like the time for him to pick up a new hobby.

His suspicions are proven correct when he’s called in from the kitchen where he’s taken refuge after the incident. His bedroom seemed too obvious and he had hoped his father might stumble straight into bed and fall asleep without so much as checking he was alive.

No such luck, naturally.

When he wanders in, trying to look like he couldn’t care less about what happens to him, a horrid thought creeps into his head. What if they really do have the money to ship him off to Timbuktu? Sure, it’s unlikely but the smugness is written all over the man’s face...

There’s something going on. Perhaps he’s finally getting his wish. Or perhaps Yuuri’s being arrested and sent to prison for the rest of his life, destined to rot in jail until his skeleton is eaten by rats. He can’t breathe.

Yuuri shoves his hands into his pockets and squints at the newspaper his father produces from behind his back with a flourish. It takes him a moment to decipher the headline but, once he’s gotten the jist, he snatches the paper and begins to read the first few lines. He skims over the drivel, looking for the facts desperately. This can’t be happening. It’s a bad dream, it has to be. He looks up to meet his father’s beady little eyes and notes how they glisten in his victory.

“That’s right,” he says, grin stretching from ear to ear. “I said I’d get rid of you, didn’t I?”

Yuuri can’t keep up the act anymore. He starts to crumble at the edges. First, his breath catches and he tries to stop his hands from shaking but his eyes are darting around frantically, seeking out an escape route. He can live in the subway station, borrow a sleeping bag from someone and begin his life as a vagrant. He has to run but his father’s hand slams against his chest.

“Oh, no you don’t.”

Yuuri can’t breathe.

“Read it and weep, sunshine,” he shoves the paper right up against Yuuri’s face and the smell of damp ink and newsprint paper almost makes him gag. “You’re going to the country. And I sure as hell won’t fight for you to stay,”

Yuuri throws a helpless glance to his mother but she breaks eye contact seconds later, looking down at the ground in shame. He can’t tell if she’s ashamed of him or of her lack of reaction to the whole thing. Her only child is being evacuated to stay in some country house where he’ll probably be hated and abused even more so than at home. He’ll be forced to do farm labour and locked in dungeons and he’ll work until he dies because they certainly won’t feed him. She’s not even a little bit sad? A little tiny bit worried about the suddenness with which her son will be swept from under her feet?

Yuuri can’t _breathe_.

He’s in his room in an instant, curled up on top of the blanket with the newspaper clutched tightly against his chest. His father yells gleefully for him to pack his bags and prepare for an early start. Train leaves at ten in the morning, he says. Yuuri can't swear to it but he's sure he hears his mother scolding him in a hushed whisper. Perhaps she does care.

Yuuri still can’t breathe.

He has trouble sleeping that night, unshed tears still clogging his throat and his nose. There seems to be no way out of this. Yuuri always has a plan. He’s a quick thinker, always planning escape routes and fighting the system. But not this time. This time, he’s giving in. He’s conforming and conformity is something he’s always battled against with headstrong self-assurance.

Not now. Not anymore.

He lets the tears fall shortly after two in the morning. They don’t stop. Yuuri feels like they never will.


	2. Chapter 2

The train departs as rapidly as it arrived and Yuuri is left standing on an empty platform, choking on clean country air and dragging his pathetic flea-bitten suitcase along on its edge. It’s small and even then only half full. His gas mask and its box take up most of the room. From there, he only has the clothes he threw in at the last minute and his school notebook, virtually empty. 

As he gazes around himself with a mixture of wonder and contempt, he notices just how green it is here. He’s heard stories and seen paintings but he’d never imagined it to be anything quite like this. Trees tower over him like skyscrapers and grass stretches as far as he can see and no doubt beyond for miles and miles and miles. 

Miles. Miles to the nearest village, miles from civilisation, miles from any other people. This is why the countryside makes Yuuri so uneasy. It feels deserted. It feels empty. He doesn’t know what dangers could be lurking in the shadows of the trees. And, if he does by chance encounter a murderer or a wild animal, who will be around to hear him scream? You can say all you like about how dirty and polluted the cities are but, to Yuuri, they’re home. London is where he belongs, not out here in this green jungle. 

He misses home and he’s only just arrived. They say he’ll be here until the war is over. He hopes it will be over by the weekend.

In the distance, he hears a vague clip clopping of hooves on the dirt track. It grows louder until a horse drawn cart trundles round the corner and Yuuri’s heart stops. This is it. This is his chance to make a first impression. This is the only one he’ll get. 

The driver slows the horse to a stop next to him and Yuuri can’t shake the feeling he’s looking down his posh country nose at him. 

“Yuuri?” He asks and his voice isn’t quite what Yuuri had expected. He’d been anticipating a pompous, high-class accent but he sounds foreign. Not Japanese like Yuuri but- maybe French?

“Depends who’s asking,” he says warily and the driver’s eyebrows shoot up.

“I am the Nikiforovs’ butler. I have been asked to escort you to the manor where the lady of the house is waiting to greet you,” he explains, clearly a little thrown off by Yuuri’s attitude. Good.

Nikiforov. That doesn’t sound English either. He’s starting to wonder if he’s wandered into some sort of foreign mafia circle. 

Dismissing this thought, Yuuri flashes his crooked sideways smile and says, “So what do I call you, butler-boy?”

This time, the butler really looks flustered and it takes all of Yuuri’s self-restraint not to laugh. “You may call me Christophe, Yuuri.”

“Alright, Chris,” Yuuri smirks, enjoying the look of displeasure that briefly settles on Christophe’s face. He’s less pleased when his expression becomes quietly amused.

Christophe jumps down from his seat to load Yuuri’s suitcase onto the back of his cart. It’s a farm cart, the type used to transport bales of hay, and Yuuri wonders for a moment if he should be insulted when he’s told to climb aboard. He decides he's too emotionally exhausted to bother and sits with his back to Christophe, watching the countryside passing him by and the train station slowly slipping out of sight. His last glimpse that home really exists vanishes along with it and he’s left feeling very much abandoned and alone. 

It’s now that his insecurities take over and he starts to picture the same scenarios he spent the entire train journey trying to suppress. He fiddles with the white tag strung around his neck, seeing his name and number printed neatly in black, and pulls it from side to side so the string rubs harshly against the back of his neck. The slight burn distracts him from his turning stomach. He can’t contain his anxious shivering because there’s always the possibility that the people he’s staying with won’t like him. He doesn’t really know why he wants them to like him so badly but he wants it so much that the thought of failing to gain their approval makes him want to throw up. He’s already blown it with Christophe, probably. All he has to do it not let his personality get in the way of further first impressions and he should be okay.

He misses home already but, when he thinks back, all he can see is his father yelling at him, his mother turning a blind eye. He can’t pinpoint a single reason why he should miss home. There’s nothing there for him, really. Not a loving family, not a nice time at school. There’s nothing for him to go back to and yet he wants to turn on his heel and flee because the uncertainty of what awaits him at the end of this road scares him half to death. He wonders if the aforementioned lady of the house is old or young or in the middle, if she’s strict or kind, if she has children grown up and fighting in the war. He wonders if her hair is short or long, if she likes toast or cereal or cooked food for breakfast. Most of all, he wonders if she’ll like him or if she’ll take one look at the poor quality clothes in his battered old suitcase and call him a filthy disgrace. Yuuri almost hopes that will happen because then he might get to have a bath and wash away the grime and filth he’s become too used to seeing on his skin.

The house is huge, bigger than any building he's come across in London. It seems to eat up the sky. Just staring up at it gives Yuuri a headache. He’s really going to be living here for the foreseeable future? Well, at least they won’t be pressed for space like they are at home sometimes. 

Home. 

Yuuri’s heart clenches. Maybe they’ve forgotten about him already.

A young woman greets him at the door and he offers her a cheeky grin to mask the nerves, wondering if she is the lady of the house. She's not as Yuuri shortly discovers. She introduces herself as Zhenya, the maid (though she hesitates on that description and Yuuri doesn’t know why), and Christophe takes the opportunity to excuse himself from Yuuri’s company as quickly as possible. Yuuri is sure he hears him whisper “good luck” to Zhenya as he passes but that could just be his paranoid imagination. He blames his fear of rejection when he’s rude to her for no reason. He’s so frightened and unsure of himself; he can’t concentrate on making a good first impression while he’s fighting the urge to find the nearest container and eject the contents of his stomach into it. 

Christophe returns shortly after Zhenya stops trying to make polite conversation, seemingly put off by Yuuri’s blatant cheek. He tries to feel bad but he’s too nervous for that. And he's also a bit busy kicking himself for being such a natural screw up.

Christophe leans close and mutters in his ear, “Do at least  _ try _ to make a good first impression on Madam Nikiforov.”

Yuuri turns to him with a nonchalant flick of his hair and whispers, “I’ll charm her with my dazzling personality,” and Yuuri is sure he sees the colour drain from Christophe’s face.

The lady in question emerges from a door to Yuuri’s left and he stands up straight again, biting his tongue in case it slips out and slices the poor woman to pieces. With his anxiety levels sky high, it’s a possibility he’ll cut her to ribbons with words. He can be as cruel as his father with his words sometimes and he hates himself bitterly for it.

“Ah, you must be Yuuri,” Madam Nikiforov smiles and it seems genuinely warm. “I’m Sasha. It’s nice to have you with us.”

Her eyes roam over his appearance, eyes widening when she catches sight of his suitcase. Yuuri feels himself blushing, another new experience. Yuuri Katsuki doesn’t get embarrassed and certainly not in front of strangers. He’s as proud as they come. He’s proud of his roots and everything he has but he doesn’t want her to see his dirty old case. He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him today but he puts it down to nerves and brushes the thoughts aside.

Sasha mutters something to Christophe who nods and takes Yuuri’s suitcase upstairs while Yuuri remains rooted to the spot, looking around himself curiously and scuffing his feet on the wooden floor.

“Yuuri, I have to rush off for a bit and see to some things. I’ll leave you with Zhenya,” Sasha says, a fond smile coming over her as she touches Zhenya’s arm. Yuuri thinks he understands now. “She’ll show you to your room and help you get your bearings. I expect you’ll meet Vitya somewhere in your travels too.”

Before Yuuri has a chance to ask who Vitya is, she has disappeared through yet another door. They whole thing is making Yuuri slightly dizzy. 

He stares after her for a moment, thinking briefly about how much he would like to have a mother like her before immediately feeling guilty. He has a mother at home. He shouldn't think such things. After all, without her he wouldn't be in this world at all. Though, he can't keep the thoughts at bay when they tell him that might have been better for everyone. 

When he turns to face Zhenya again, she is watching him with the strangest expression. Yuuri blinks and the look is gone. He wonders if perhaps he imagined it.

Zhenya leads him upstairs and through the hallways in silence which Yuuri is grateful for. He doesn’t really feel up to making small talk. And he’s busy taking in his surroundings at any rate. The place is huge with statues looming over him at almost every turn. If he’s honest, he finds them a little disconcerting. He doesn’t make a scene of it, though. He’s not afraid of anything. No way. 

They round another corner and Yuuri lets out a very un-Yuuri-like shriek as he falls to the floor in a tangle of limbs. He lifts his gaze from the polished wooden floorboards to lock eyes with a boy around his age with the most startling blue eyes Yuuri has ever seen. The boy stumbles to his feet again, apologies tumbling from his lips with every breath. 

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbles, stretching out a hand to Yuuri who is still sat on the floor. “Are you alright?”

Yuuri stares at the boy’s hand for a long moment before setting his expression to mildly irritated once again and picking himself up from the ground, leaving the other boy stood there with his hand stuck out. The boy blushes before bending down to pick up his book which had fallen along with him. 

Yuuri notices that the other boy is a good six inches taller than his current height of 5'5" and, while skinny like Yuuri, has a far healthier build. Despite his pale skin, he seems the epitome of health next to Yuuri's ratty frame. His free hand flick his long silver hair over his shoulders and Yuuri is mesmerised by the way is falls elegantly around his face.

“You really should look where you’re going, Vitya,” Zhenya scolds but Yuuri can hear the fondness in her tone as she fusses over him, dusting him off and fixing the neck of his shirt. The boy, who Yuuri presumes to be Vitya, swats at her playfully and Yuuri almost cracks a smile. 

“But it was just getting really good. I couldn’t help it,” Vitya laughs and that sound makes Yuuri’s stomach flutter. 

It takes a moment, but Zhenya seems to become aware of Yuuri’s presence again and steps back apologetically.

“Yuuri, this is Viktor,” she says, and Viktor gives a shy little wave. “Viktor, Yuuri. He’ll be staying with us for the foreseeable future.”

“But please call me Vitya,” Viktor insists quickly, smile wavers when he catches Yuuri’s eye.

Yuuri maintains an emotionless expression. He doesn’t accept Viktor’s handshake and instead breezes on past like he knows where he’s going without a glance back. 

~

It’s been two hours and Yuuri has been left well enough alone. He’s not sure how he feels about that. Part of him wants to be left with his thoughts so he can have time to adjust to this new setting but said thoughts are starting to turn poisonous and he’s beginning to wish for a distraction. He wonders if he’s already blown it with Viktor by being hostile and rude when he didn’t need to be. 

Probably. 

He’s such an idiot. He doesn’t need to protect himself from someone like Viktor, from Zhenya and Christophe and whoever else is living here. He hasn’t encountered a single soul who has shown any intention of hurting him.

But there’s that little twitch of inbuilt paranoia in the back of his mind telling him not to be so naive. Of course they won’t show it. If they’re planning on hurting him, they’ll put up a friendly front to gain his trust and then they’ll clamp their jaws down on him when it’s too late to run, like a venus fly trap catching its prey. Except they probably won’t dissect him. Oh God, what if they dissect him? He swallows his fear and scolds himself for letting his imagination get the better of them. He’s sure they won’t dissect him.

Then again, everyone has a secret. Yuuri can only hope theirs aren’t as morbid as some he’s come across in London.

~

“What do you think of him, Viktor?” Phichit gives his upper arm a gentle nudge with his elbow to get his attention.

Viktor is silent for a long moment, drying the crockery with the Christmas tea towel even though it’s only mid-March. He doesn’t really know what to make of Yuuri. He seems so bolshy and sure of himself one moment but then his eyes lose their hard edge and he looks almost afraid. Viktor is fairly certain there’s a lot more to Yuuri than meets the eye. Christophe seems to agree.

“He’s extremely rude,” he mutters, unused to such cheek from a youngster having spent so much time with Viktor who has always been mature for his age. But he doesn’t sound upset about it. “I can only wonder who made him that way. But he certainly strikes me as your average troublemaker.”

Viktor shakes his head. “There’s more to him than that,” he says firmly and Phichit looks at him expectantly, waiting for an explanation. “I can’t quite put my finger on it but there’s something different about him.”

Christophe looks thoughtful but his smile quickly becomes teasing. “Does our Viten’ka have a crush?”

“No!” Viktor squeaks, swatting Christophe with his tea towel. He can feel his ears burning and is glad his hair covers them. “It’s not like that.”

Christophe waggles his eyebrows in response and Viktor scowls.

“Well,” Phichit sighs, surprising everyone by not immediately jumping on an opportunity to tease Viktor. “I only caught a glimpse but he’s pitifully thin. He can’t have been well fed back in London.”

“Probably too poor for that,” Christophe adds and the atmosphere turns solemn again.

Viktor thinks back to their meeting in the hallway. Yuuri’s arms were so skinny, his clothes baggy. He barely weighs anything. Viktor has always known there are poor people in the world, people who can’t afford to eat enough to be healthy, who sleep on the ground or share one room per family. He hears about it happening but this is the closest he’s come to accepting it as a reality. Viktor wonders if Yuuri’s home is like that. 

“We’ll feed him up, eh, Vitya?” Phichit chuckles and Viktor flashes him a smile. “He’ll be fit as a fiddle in no time.”

Viktor nods. He certainly hopes so. Viktor wants to be friends with Yuuri but he’s just not sure if Yuuri feels the same way about him. He’s finding it difficult to tell if his attitude is an artificial front or if he really is just a typical troublemaker. Perhaps he really does dislike Viktor. But something tells Viktor he’s right to think there’s more hidden beneath the surface. He needs to look deeper.

~

There’s a knock on Yuuri’s door. Yuuri stays silent. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now.

In keeping with Yuuri’s spree of back luck lately, the door clicks open regardless and Viktor pops his head round the corner with a soft smile. Yuuri almost smiles back.

“Knock knock,” Viktor mutters and it’s cheesy but Yuuri doesn’t let it put him off. He nods and sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. 

“Phichit made you this,” Viktor goes on and it’s only then Yuuri notices the plate of food in Viktor’s hands. “Thought you might be hungry after your long journey.”

Yuuri doesn’t know what to say. There’s more food there than he’d normally have in a week. He could never eat all of that. His eyes dart between Viktor and the plate and there’s a fleeting moment when he wonders if it’s been poisoned but he brushes that thought aside with the rumbling of his stomach. Viktor has clearly heard it too because he steps a little closer and holds the plate out towards Yuuri in a fashion which makes him feel like a flighty animal. 

The plate feels warm in his hands and he stares down at the sheer volume of food on his plate and tries to recall exactly how to form words.

He manages to force out a small, “thank you” through his dry throat. Viktor takes a seat beside him and Yuuri thinks about asking him to leave but he can’t find the words. Viktor speaks instead.

“I guess this must be quite a change from London,” he murmurs and Yuuri feels that pang of homesickness in his chest again at the thought of his family. “But you can’t spend all your time here sulking in your room.”

Yuuri pouts. “I’m not sulking,” he says defensively but it’s a lie because he has definitely been sulking. Viktor nods like he doesn’t believe him. Yuuri doesn’t expect him to.

“Still, you shouldn’t stay cooped up inside,” Viktor goes on, giving Yuuri’s arm a nudge and looking pointedly at his plate. Yuuri supposes that must be Viktor’s way of telling him he’s far too skinny. So, he’s the caring type. Yuuri feels awful for immediately thinking of how easy he’d be to exploit. 

Thankfully, his better nature takes over and he shoves a steamed carrot into his mouth to prevent himself from blurting out something cheeky.

“Maybe you could come meet Phichit and Elizabeth later. I’m sure they’d both like to meet you. Well, I haven’t actually asked Elizabeth yet because haven’t seen her since you got here but Phichit would like to meet you. But you should probably steer clear of Uncle Nikolei right now because-”

“Viktor,” Yuuri interrupts sharply and Viktor’s face falls when he meets Yuuri’s eye. Yuuri doesn’t have the nervous capacity to feel bad right now. He’s too busy containing his shakes. “Thank you for the food and everything but could you leave me alone now?”

“Oh. Okay,”

Viktor looks downtrodden as he leaves and he pulls the door shut behind him without so much as a glance back. Yuuri hates himself. Viktor is so sweet and gentle and Yuuri just keeps getting at him, chipping away at his cheer. 

He doesn’t even know  _ why. _

Yuuri finds he can’t eat all of the food but he wolfs down as much as he can until his stomach feels like it might burst and returns to lying on his back, tipping his head to the side to stare up at the overcast sky which is growing steadily darker. 

A thought crosses Yuuri’s mind then. 

Stars. 

He’ll get to see the stars in their full shining glory. Without the light from the busy city, the stars will be beautiful and clear and he’ll see thousands and millions of stars and galaxies stretching out before him, breaking through the barriers of his universe into the next and then another and another. Even the image in his mind is breathtaking. He finds himself hoping for night to fall sooner rather than later but, when he checks the grandfather clock in the hallway, it’s barely two in the afternoon. He sighs. He’s been here for too long. He wants to go home.

With nostalgia weighing heavy on his heart, Yuuri picks up his tatty notebook from the windowsill and flips to the very back, carefully removing the newspaper cutting from Thursday’s paper. His eyes skim over the date and he thinks to himself that he has a better chance of surviving this war now. That’s why he has the clipping. He wants to have something to remember. When he’s old and grey and starts to forget things, he wants to remember the exact day his life was turned on its head. He wants to be able to tell the story with the greatest accuracy he possibly can. 

(He’s not sure who he’ll tell it to, though. After all, it’s not like children are a possibility.) 

He holds the clipping close to his chest all the same and thinks of home.

By the time Viktor makes another attempt to speak to Yuuri, he’s thrown up what he’s eaten in the toilet and he can still taste the bitterness. He hugs the clipping closer to his chest in the hopes Viktor won’t notice it.

“Phichit wants to know if you’re still hungry,” Viktor says flatly, eyes scanning the room for Yuuri’s plate. Clearly, he’d expected it to be empty because Yuuri sees his eyes widen ever so slightly. The very thought of food makes Yuuri’s stomach churn and he shakes his head, maintaining his wall of silence somewhat reluctantly. He wants to reach out but he’s cowering within himself as usual. 

_ Idiot.  _

Viktor sighs.

“You don’t want to be here,” he says and Yuuri throws him a pointed look. “I get that. I wouldn’t like being wrenched from my family and dumped in the middle of nowhere either. I can’t imagine it.”

That’s exactly how Yuuri feels - dumped, abandoned, discarded. 

He misses his mother. Sometimes, he lies in bed and lets the memory of her soft voice wash over him as she repeats a story he knows by heart. It’s imprinted in his head in her voice. Her voice back when she still loved him, before he went and made a right grand mess of everything. He slips the clipping beneath his pillow when Viktor looks away briefly.

“But the only thing you can really do is accept the way things are and move on because you’re not going back until it’s safe,” Viktor finishes firmly and the way he says it makes it sound like he’s genuinely concerned for Yuuri’s safety. Again, he almost smiles.

Instead, he sighs and rests his hands on his bloated stomach. “I wasn’t  _ wrenched _ from my family. There’s no need to be so dramatic about it,” Yuuri grumbles. 

This time, it’s Viktor’s turn to almost smile and Yuuri finds that infuriating because there’s absolutely nothing to be smiling about in this situation.

“Come on,” Viktor murmurs, pulling Yuuri to his feet in a fashion which forces him to let out an indignant cry. Viktor ignores him. “Phichit wants to meet you,”

And that seems to be that because Yuuri tags along behind without a single complaint, feeling somewhat meek and drained after everything. He’s just too tired to think about anything, even his nerves. So he’s relatively civil when he says hello to Phichit, who Yuuri learns to be the cook. He doesn’t say much else while Phichit natters on about when his family came over from Thailand.

Eventually, Yuuri catches Phichit looking him up and down with pity in his eyes and the anger returns. He clenches his fists.

“Aren’t I clean enough to be in your kitchen?” He growls, immediately on the defensive.

Phichit looks saddened by such a remark. “It’s not that…” he begins but Yuuri cuts him off, the frustration and unfairness of it all finally getting the better of him. He can’t stop.

“Oh? Well, what is it then?” Yuuri can predict the tears which will no doubt spring to his eyes once he gets going. “I know my clothes aren’t exactly state of the art and I don’t have an awful lot. I know I don’t quite meet your standards. And I’m not going to apologise for being born nor will I apologise for being here because I was never given a choice. They wanted rid of me,” he shouldn’t have said that. Too late now. “You’re stuck with me.”

The most infuriating thing is that Phichit doesn’t look shocked. He looks sad and it makes Yuuri want to punch him because he doesn’t need his pity. He doesn’t need anybody’s pity, especially not when it’s coming from someone who has lived and worked in a mansion probably longer than Yuuri has been alive. He folds his arms across his chest in defiance and Phichit’s shoulders slump. He’s defeated but Yuuri doesn’t feel like a winner. He feels inferior and he resents Phichit for making him feel that way. 

(In retrospect, he thinks later, he should resent himself because Phichit didn’t say a word against him.)

“I’m sorry,” Phichit murmurs and he sounds so sincere.

That throws Yuuri off. “Wh-what?”

Phichit offers a watery smile. “It must be exhausting to be so angry all the time.”

Yuuri opens his mouth to speak but closes it again when he can’t think of anything. He feels the anger slowly ebbing away.

“You’re just shouting at the world because nobody’s listening,” Phichit goes on and Yuuri can’t even find it in himself to be mad at him. Because he’s right and a little voice buried deep down inside Yuuri’s consciousness won’t let him deny it. He keeps his fists clenched. 

“I’m sorry,” Phichit says again.

Yuuri swallows and turns away. There are tears pooling in his eyes but he can’t cry here.

His head is swimming and his heart is hammering in his chest, pounding in his ears and only ever getting louder. He feels so lost and painfully small out here in the countryside. Home is too far away. Phichit might be stuck with him but that’s only because Yuuri is stuck here for God only knows how long. All alone.

“Let’s go,” Viktor whispers, placing a hand on Yuuri’s forearm. Yuuri takes a moment to react before letting Viktor lead him away. Whatever Viktor sees in him, Yuuri hopes to somehow preserve it because it’s about his only hope of making a friend around here. He’s not about to throw it away.

**(He spends the rest of the day in his room. Viktor doesn’t visit again until later and, even then, it’s only to let him know he’s free to have a bath if he likes. He does.) **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry I jump around so much my brain is just not in gear atm lkfdsj

**Author's Note:**

> ngl this is a SHAMELESS rewrite of a fic i wrote years ago for a different fandom but i'm editing it so there will be some skating and also viktor's mamas (courtesy of askyoungvitya on tumblr) because i love them and also there will be 0 homophobia/transphobia in this world because god damn it i want my boys to be happy
> 
> anyway, pls enjoy and lemme know what you think!!
> 
> since most of this is written, it hopefully shouldn't take me too long to update. he says...hopefully...


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